


it's not the years, honey, it's the mileage

by Merideath



Category: Captain America (Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fake Marriage, Faking the Dead, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Mild Language, On the Run, Road Trips, Secret Relationship, Tropes, beardy!steve, vague vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:42:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1316950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merideath/pseuds/Merideath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes she thinks it’s the worst decision she’s ever made, running off with a man she barely knew. Life turned into a parody of a romance novel. Blood and lies. Days, and months, and miles. If she could turn back the clock she’d make the same choice again and again. </p><p>She took his hand before he offered it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A long time ago Katy and I shared our mutal desire for fic of Steve as Indiana Jones. This isn't quite that. But there is a scene in Raiders that very much inspired the writing of this story. Mcgregorswench and msjarvis over on tumblr asked for fic of Steve and Darcy in hiding/on the run and though this story doesn't go as far as Steve being collected by the team it was written with that thought in mind.  
> There aren't any spoilers for CATWS though in my mind this story takes place after then, or in an AU verse along the same timeline if not the same (unknown) events. 
> 
> To Katy, my partner in fictional crimes: Thank you for holding my hand and listening to me babble on as I tried to make the threads of this story weave together. Thank you for for always listening to all my damn stories, headcanons and obnoxious plotbunnies.
> 
> Thanks also go to Aenaria for the super quick beta to help whip this story into shape.  
>    
> Title from Raiders of the Lost Arc.

“Come on,” Darcy mutters under her breath as she fights with the B&B’s less than stellar wifi. Her eyes track to the clock in the corner of her screen. It’s not late and she’s not worried. Not yet anyway. Minutes pass but it feels like hours as her fingers fly across the keys, head bobbing along to the song playing from the earbud in her right ear. The left earbud is safely tucked into the neck of her t-shirt. Darcy’s bare toes, nails painted ‘I Have No Reception’ silver, curl over the bar of the wooden stool she’s perched on. Brown leather flats lay on the floor somewhere beneath her feet.

 

The room is nearly silent, but for the hum of the laptop’s fan and the steady drip, drip, drip of the sink in the kitchenette. The threads from the frayed edge of her denim shorts tickle against her skin and she twists them around her fingers waiting for the last file to download.

 

The sound of car on the gravel drive outside the house sends adrenaline jolting down her spine. Darcy folds the laptop down, shoves it into her backpack as she shoves her feet into her shoes, gun in hand, safety off, before the door cracks open. Her mind goes blank as everything narrows down to the shadow between door and jamb.

 

“It’s me,” Steve says.

 

“Oh God,” Darcy breathes out, pointing the weapon at the floor and flicking the safety back on, sets the gun down beside her backpack and is halfway across the room as he pushes through the door. Dirt is smeared across the bridge of his nose, dried blood on his temple, and he’s favoring his left leg. He’s back and alive and that’s all that matters.

 

“I told you not to listen to that damn thing while I’m out,” he says, eyes on the wire dangling from her ear. He pushes the door closed and twists the lock. Slam it, she thinks.

 

“One, I only had one earbud in. Two, you’re an ass, three, not the boss of me, and four, did you get everything on the list?” Darcy yanks the earbud out of her ear and pulls the ipod from her pocket. Quick angry movements that hide the relief she feels.

 

“That all you have to say?” Steve says dropping a plastic bag on the formica countertop and leaning against it.  

 

“Well I figured opening with ‘you look like shit, asshole’ would get me in trouble,” she says, stepping in between his boots and sliding her arms around his waist. Rocking up on her toes she kisses the underside of his jaw. Her throat is tight with emotion, heart beating fast in the cage of her ribs.

 

“Is there a time when you aren’t in trouble?” he rumbles, wrapping his arms around her and fisting her shirt in his hands. The cotton gives, threads snapping at the seams. The armor of his vest presses into the thin cotton of her t-shirt.

 

“How bad?”

 

“Not as bad as it could have been.”

 

“Wow, how’s that being a big fat liar working out for you, Steven?”

 

“You’re still here aren’t you?”  he rumbles and kisses the top of her head.

 

“Jerk,” she murmurs.  Taking a half step back she looks up at him, the dirt on his face and beard. “We safe here tonight?”

 

“Yeah. Tomorrow...” he says, voice trailing off. She doesn’t need any more than that.

 

His hands unclench from her shirt and he curls them around her hips pulling her into him, closing the space she made between them. The pads of his thumbs slip under the hem of her t-shirt and drag across her belly. His eyes stare searchingly into hers.

 

Darcy drops her gaze, there are some things he doesn’t need to see in her eyes. “Good. Let’s get you cleaned up and into bed.”

 

….

 

"Ow, fuck," Steve hisses. He curls his arm over his belly  pressing his palm flat against his ribcage.

 

“That’s close enough,” Darcy says, reaching up to unzip the black combat vest. The tips of her fingers skate over a bullet hole in the fabric. Darcy’s breath stutters.

 

“It’s fine. The vest did it’s job,” he murmurs, wrapping a calloused hand over hers. Tears prick at her eyes but she blinks them away. She knows better than to cry over wounds that heal without a trace. It's the memories that scar.

 

They’ve been together for months now. Months of living out of pocket. Nights bristling with weapons, bruises and falsified documents. Too much coffee and too little sleep.

 

Captain America is dead.

 

Steve Rogers lives on.

 

Darcy focuses on helping strip him out of combat vest, dark grey henley, and undershirt. The cotton feels heavy in her hands, and she worries at a hole with the tip of her index finger. Better get the sewing kit out, she thinks, making no move to dig it out of the duffle bag leaning against the wall. Steve’s fingers fumble with the leather straps of his thigh holster before he drops it onto the bedside table with a dull thud. He digs keys and coins, a wallet and two usb sticks from his pockets before easing down onto the side of the bed with a tired sigh. The bed groans in protest when Steve drops back onto the pink floral monstrosity of a bedspread. He curls his arm up pulling one of the pillows underneath his head. His boots stick out over the end of the bed. Darcy makes quick work undoing the laces, refusing to contemplate the sticky substance splashed across the tops. Sometimes she thinks it’s the worst decision she’s ever made, running off with a man she barely knew. Life turned into a parody of a romance novel. Blood and lies. Days, and months, and miles. If she could turn back the clock she’d make the same choice again and again.

 

She took his hand before he offered it.

 

They haven’t stopped running.

 

"Sorry."

 

Darcy rolls her eyes at the apology and sits down on the edge of the bed. Her thigh presses against Steve’s hip and he hisses a little at the shifting of the bed. "Don't apologise and don't be such a baby."

 

"My ribs are bust," he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And my head hurts." He points to the healing gash on his temple where it disappears into the hairline.

 

She doesn’t ask what happened. Not today.

 

She knows the names of the ghosts that haunt him.

 

The name of the one he chases.

 

Mile after mile.

 

"Idiot," Darcy says, leaning forward and brushing her lips over his temple beside the cut and over the line of worry between his brows. Steve blinks up at her slowly eyes tracing over her face. "Anywhere else?"

 

"Here," Steve says pointing to his beard covered jaw. Darcy leans down kissing his jaw. The tip of her nose rubbing on his cheek. “And here.” Steve’s fingertips press against his full bottom lip. Darcy kisses him softly. His lips are warm and dry. The last little knot of anxiety eases in her chest as he breaths her name against her mouth. She sucks his lip into her mouth, sinks her teeth in. Steve shifts beneath her, slides his hand up the curve of her spine, spears his fingers into her hair working her loose bun free. Her hair spills down over her shoulders and Steve hums happily against her mouth.

 

“Any other aches need kissing?” Darcy asks cradling his jaw in her hand. The bristles of his beard tickle her palm.

 

Steve grins, a bright flash of teeth, “M’neck hurts.” The rough pad of his thumb rubs the patch of skin behind her ear. Darcy shivers and leans into the touch.

 

The first time he kissed her, he kissed her goodbye.

 

His hair is a dark halo on the pillow, lighter at the roots. Need to touch up the dye soon, she thinks. Pressing her thumb under his chin, she tilts his head up exposing the long line of his neck. She mouths at his neck, tracing the tip of her tongue over the birthmarks there.

 

Steve's fingers tighten in her hair. She breathes in the scent of him; sweat, musk, gun oil, and leather. It’s home and comfort and heat crawling up her spine.

 

Salt lingers on her tongue.

 

“Anywhere else?”

 

“Ribs are achin’,” he breathes out.

 

The fingers of his left hand card through her hair to the ends. Catching her lip between her teeth Darcy swings her leg over to straddle him. Her knees press into the pink flowered bedspread and she holds herself above him with one hand on the bed beside his shoulder.

 

She trails her free hand down the curve of his neck, the hard planes of his chest covered in dark hair. The ridges of abdomen. Skin twitches and muscles flex beneath her fingertips. She traces the edges of bruises painted into his flesh. Blue and red and yellow. Gliding her hand back up to cover his heart she kisses his chest, rubs her lips over hot skin and crisp hair.  

 

Darcy kisses down Steve’s belly, scooting backwards as she goes until she curls her fingers in the waistband of his combat trousers. Her nails scrape on hot skin and she can feel Steve’s eyes focused intensely on her. He makes no move to stop her, to flip her over and pin her down against the mattress. It’s there though in the way his fingers grip the pillow tight and the rolling of his hips. Heat licks down her spine, pools in her belly. A low moan escapes her lips. Steve’s name wrapped around her tongue.

 

"Aw, hell," Steve says dropping his head back against the pillows. His eyes are shut tight, eyelashes a dark smudge over his cheeks to match the black dirt across the bridge of his nose.

 

He is beautiful and hers as much as she is his.

 

Darcy stretches out her thumb to rub over the hard length of him through the thick fabric of his pants. The sharp inhalation of his breath snaps her eyes back to his. "Shall I keep going? Keep kissing the pain away?”

 

"Darcy--"

 

"Yes or no."

 

"Fuck," Steve swears, closing his eyes tight. She slides her hands from his pants, presses her palms flat against the crisp hair trailing down his belly. "Yeah, yes...please."

 

“Always so polite.”

 

“Not always.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told Sybil, my muse, that I was done with this little verse. She didn't think so. So here we are with a little bit more. Or a lot more if you noticed the change in rating. What can I say, my characters don't always listen to me. It's not spoilery for Captain America: the Winter Soldier but could fit in as a coda to it if you wish to imagine it so. 
> 
> This chapter is for Aenaria, for listening to me whine about plotbunnies and vindictive muses. 
> 
> Thanks go to Ladysarah for beta'ing the chapter and to Katy for reading as I wrote and not shouting at me for neglecting all my other WIPs for just a little bit longer. Any other mistakes are my own, mostly for me trying to format and post this from my phone (I could honestly cry but that is more from this cold than anything).

The road stretches on forever or so it seems; dry rolling hills that should be golden but only look tired and dead in the afternoon light. It’s hot, the AC’s bust and the windows are rolled down as far as they will go. _Should have stolen a better car_ , he thinks.

Steve shifts in the cracked leather seat, back sticky with sweat. He pulls the baseball cap off his head, wipes the sweat on his forehead on his arm and pushes his sunglasses back up the slope of his nose. Darcy moves beside him, leaning forward and twisting the knob of the radio.

“You know we're in the middle of nowhere right?”

“Don’t be a Debbie Downer, Steve,” she says switching from one fuzzy station to another. The station has less static than the last and the first few chords of ‘Immigrant Song’ play and Darcy cheers in her seat. “Suck it, loser.”

“Led Zeppelin,” he says low, reaching out to turn the volume up.

“Mhmm,” Darcy says. He can hear the smile in her voice and it warms his chest. It always does. She absently shifts to stick her bare feet out the window. Wiggling her toes in the air she sings softly under her breath. _“The hammer of the gods will drive our ships to new lands.”_

Steve’s eyes stray from the road to glance at her legs, bare skin his fingers want to trace. She’s wearing cut off jeans and a thin yellow tank top over a bright blue bra that matches the glittery paint on her toes. Darcy’s eyes are hidden behind dark sunglasses and dark hair pinned up in a loose tangle atop her head.

A smile stretches across her face. Lips painted a bright red, that makes him think of blood, and sex, and a shield he no longer carries.

He focuses back on the road, the cracked and faded asphalt bordered by dead grass and faded green signs. Mile marker after mile marker. “There’s a gas station in a few miles. Need to fill up,” he rumbles.

Darcy pulls her feet back into the car, shifts in her seat, stretching out her back. “Good, you owe me a coke.”

“Since when?”

“Since you drank the last four,” she says, reaching over and patting his thigh.

Her hand is warm and he sifts his legs further apart inviting her to keep touching him. Darcy huffs out a laugh, and rubs her fingers in small circles on his inner thigh.

There's a twist in his belly, it's more than lust he feels when he drops his hand from the wheel to cover hers. On her finger a silver ring.

The metal’s real enough but the ring is as fake as the ID in his wallet and Darcy’s purse.

They’re two steps ahead of SHIELD and two steps behind a ghost. All he can think about for a span of moments are wishes and worlds that aren’t his. Holding on tight to what he can while it lasts. He squeezes her fingers tight, and pulls away to switch gears and put both hands back on the wheel.

He keeps his eyes on the road, grips the steering wheel tight enough that he hears the plastic protest. Feels the ring bites into his finger and Darcy’s hand warm on his thigh. Thinks about their first kiss goodbye and the last kiss.

He wets his lips and tastes cherry and salt.

…………….

Steve switches off the shower and steps out onto the faded pink mat grabbing ahold of one of the worn pink towels. Everything in the bathroom is a sickly shade of pink. Toilet, shower curtain, the little heart shaped soaps in a pink dish on the pink marbled countertop. The towel is soft beneath the pads of his fingers and smells faintly of floral detergent. “Left you some hot water,” he says as he rubs the towel over damp skin and dripping hair.

“It’s a miracle,” Darcy calls out from the bedroom. “Dear diary, today for the first day ever, Steve didn’t use all the hot water.”

“I can hop back in an’ use up the rest.”

“You do that and all you’re getting tonight is a bottle of lotion and a box of kleenex,” she says deadpan.

Steve barks out a laugh, rubbing the towel down his legs. He considers seeing how riled up he can get her before they need to hit the road again. He glimpses her through the open door. She’s wearing his green t-shirt again, dark hair falling out of a loose braid.

A duffel bag is perched on the corner of the bed. Darcy’s busy shoving dirty laundry in it, humming to herself as she works. The morning light catches on the wedding band on her finger and Steve stills wrapping the damp towel around his waist. Darcy sways back and forth, rotates her hips in a slow figure eight motion that is both erotic and simply Darcy. His Darcy. The thought is utterly possessive and sends heat rolling through his veins settling low at the base of his spine.

He turns to the mirror and wipes away the fog on the glass. His cheeks and chest pink with the turn of his thoughts. Smiling ruefully he brushes his teeth. Combs his hair. It’s getting long again and he adds 'get a hair cut' to his mental list.

“The cookie at the reception desk said there’s a waffle place in town,” Steve says as he dispenses a dollop of shaving cream onto his fingertips and lathers it over his neck.

“I’ll just bet she did,” Darcy snorts. A metallic click echos from the bedroom. He doesn’t need to look to know she’s checking the weapons.

“Darce-”

“Just leave me the car keys when you go off to have your torrid affair.”

“Think her husband might object to that,” Steve muses, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. He pulls his straight razor out, tests the sharpness of the edge.

“I dunno, Clive looked the sort to enjoy key parties and letting bearded rogues seduce his lovely wife,” she says, the smile clear in her voice.

Steve rolls his eyes, “M’not seducing his wife.”

“Why not? You seduced me.”

“Is that how it happened?” Steve tilts his head back and to the right, pulling his skin down he shaving with the grain. Smooth precise strokes of the straight razor over his skin.

“Yup.”

“I don’t remember it happening quite that way,” he says. The towel works itself free falling from his waist to puddle around his feet, Steve ignores the towel and works on scraping the whiskers from the left side of his neck.

“Steven Grant Rogers, former captain of the United States Army, ex-superhero, occasional vigilante, and master of seduction,” Darcy says, voice trailing off as she pushes the door open.

_Ex-superhero._

He was never a hero to begin with.

“Hardly,” he snorts watching her in the mirror. Darcy’s hand is still curled over the doorknob, lip caught between her teeth as her eyes roam over his bare back, down the curve of his ass. She drags her eyes back up to his reflection. He lifts his eyebrows at her, the right side of his mouth curling up as the color rises in her cheeks, blue eyes wide. Maybe if he was a better man he’d not get such a thrill everytime he manages to surprise her in some small way. If he lived up to the propaganda, all the perfectly packaged lies.

Darcy never met Captain America.

He never had to be anyone with her but Steve Rogers.

“C’mere,” he says, voice gone suddenly hoarse. Steve wipes the remnants of shaving cream away with a damp cloth. His eyes are closed when he feels her warmth and loops his arm around her pulling her into him. There’s a grin on her face when he looks down at her and she rocks up onto her toes to kiss him. It’s slow and lingering. Her tongue traces his bottom lip and slips into his mouth. Coke-a-cola on her tongue that has him smiling against her lips.

“Mmm, you taste like spearmint and shaving cream,” Darcy hums lowering herself back down on her heels. He holds onto her tighter, breathing in the faded apple blossom scent of her hair.

She’s warm and alive. And in his arms.  
Darcy sighs into his chest, shifts to tuck herself into his left side and drag her hand over his chest and belly. Her fingertips trace the rough pink scars that crisscross over his skin. There is a firmness in the line of her mouth, a tremor that runs down her arm. “Hey, it’s okay. M’okay.”

“You’re an idiot who takes stupid risks to help others,” Darcy says shaking her head and pressing her fingers into the scars.

“Don’t,” he hisses out between clenched teeth, the skin has knit itself back together but the tissue and muscle beneath still ache. “It’ll be gone by night.” Steve slides his hand down to palm her lace covered ass under the hem of his shirt.

“Still an idiot,” Darcy murmurs, brushing her lips over his chest and sliding her hand down his abdomen, following the trail of hair to circle around his dick. Heat swept through his body, blood flowing down and down filling his cock. “How long before we need to hit the road?”

Darcy slides her hand along the length of him. Her touch is maddeningly light on sensitive skin, and his cock jumps in the ring of her fingers. She wets her lips and skates her free hand down his back, nails raking over his ass. Steve’s his hips buck forward into her warm hand. Darcy laughs into his chest, breath ticking warm skin.

“Long enough,” he says he lets his gaze wander back to the mirror. There is a surge of pure masculine pride at Darcy’s small hand wrapped around the thick hard length of his cock. His eyes are heavy lidded, face and chest flushed pink. The silver ring is on her finger still, he feels it when she tightens her hand on him. “You’re wearing the ring,” he says.

 _Stupid_ , he thinks biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.

“So I am,” Darcy says. Her hand glides up his length, foreskin sliding up over the wet crown of his dick and Darcy rubs her thumb in a slow circle over the head. Steve groans rolling his hips forward, gripping the edge of the sink tight in his right hand. “I could stop and take it off.”

“No, don’t,” he says. The words are too quick rolling from his tongue and he buries his face in her hair so she won’t see what he cannot hide in his eyes. Darcy’s mouth is hot and wet on his skin. Teeth scraping over his collarbone. She twists her wrist and a guttural moan spills from his lips.

“God, I love that,” Darcy says tilting her head back to look at him. Her eyes are dark and wide, cheeks the same rose hue as the color of her lips. His mind pulls up the image of Darcy’s pink lips stretched around his cock, glossy and slick. Steve’s thighs tremble and he leans down and fits their mouths together. There is no grace in the kiss, in his mouth covering hers. He licks between her lips and she parts for him, lets him have every bit of her, until his lungs burn for air. His breath is ragged, loose tendrils of her hair sticking to his mouth.

He squeezes her ass, slips his hand down between her thighs to feel the wet heat of her pussy through the cotton of her panties. He nudged her panties aside and slide his fingers along slick folds. The sharp inhalation of Darcy’s breath has him grinning against her lips. “And you say you didn’t seduce me.”

“I have my moments,” he says pushing the tips of his fingers into her.

“Jesus,” she breathes out. He nips at her bottom lip, and releases his hold on the countertop to pull her hand free from his cock. Kissing her deeply he slides his fingers from her panties, gripping her thighs and lifting her up against his body. Darcy wraps her legs around his waist, legs squeezing him tight when he sets her on the cold counter. “Fuck, that’s cold.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs. He isn’t. Steve kisses down her neck, licking and sucking marks on her skin until his mouth brushes the cotton of his shirt. The scent of aftershave, deodorant, and sweat mingle with a faint trace of Darcy’s perfume and lavender scented dryer sheets. His hands slide from her thighs up under the shirt, gliding over her back and sides, thumbs rubbing under her breasts. “Condom?”

“Makeup bag,” Darcy says reaching blindly behind her. The bag falls over scattering its contents onto the counter. A tube of lipstick rolls off the counter and bounces on the floor. He pulls his hands out from under her shirt, plucking the strip of condoms from the mess. Pink blusher clings to his fingers. Darcy leans back reaching for the hem of the shirt.

“Keep it on,” he says.

“Yeah?” she asks, eyebrows reaching up towards her hairline.

“Yeah,” he rasps, leaning into her and wrapping his hand around her braid. He tugs her head back exposing the column of her neck. A whimper falls from Darcy’s lips and he traces her jaw with his tongue. She rocks against him, hands clutching at his skin. Nails rake across one of the raised pink scars on his side dragging a hiss out of him. “Fuck.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just give me a second,” he says releasing her hair and sliding his hand down her back to palm her hip. The condom packet crinkles between his fingers and he concentrates on the beats of Darcy’s pulse as he pushes past the sharp pain in his side.

Steve breathes in through his nose, the heady scent of arousal fills his lungs and sets his brain buzzing. The pain in his side counterpoint to the pulsing in his cock. Darcy’s eyes narrow and she leans into him, cupping his face in her hands, thumbs brushing his lips.

There is worry in her eyes that he can’t stand to see. He lets his eyes fall shut and takes a deep breath. He can smell himself on her fingers, musk and sweat. His cock twitches, and he flicks his tongue out over his bottom lip and her thumb.

“Okay,” he says, gently slapping Darcy’s hip.

“You sure?” she says, brow furrowed.

“Never more so,” he rumbles, pushing his thumb between them to rub the damp lace covering her. Darcy unwinds her legs from his waist, her heels resting against the backs of his legs. She pulls her hands away, taking the condom packet and tearing it open. Steve takes himself in hand, stroking his cock twice, squeezing the head and rolling the condom on with a hiss.

Darcy leans back on one hand and pulls her panties to the side. Slides her fingers down to part slick pink folds. God, he loves that, loves watching her touch herself. Steve groans low and she drags her eyes up to his face, pushing two fingers into the slick heat of her pussy.

“We’re good to go,” she says, holding herself wide for him. “Come on.”

Steve curls his hand around the base of his cock, lines himself up and pushes into her. She’s scalding hot, wet and so tight around him. Darcy’s hand grips his shoulder, nails cutting half moons into flesh. He glides his hand up under the green t-shirt, splaying his fingers over smooth skin. Darcy drops her head to his shoulder and Steve meets his reflection’s eyes in the mirror.

“So good,” she breathes into his skin, sliding her heels up and down the backs of his legs. She ripples around his cock and he drops his head back exhaling slowly. He rocks his hips, pulling out and pushing in. Darcy moans, clinging to him as he fucks into her. Her hand trapped between their bodies, fingers busy over her clit, brushing his cock when he thrusts into her.

His control is slipping. Steve slaps his hand against the mirror. Spiderweb cracks spiral out under his palm. He widens his feet and lets the sound of flesh slapping flesh, Darcy’s moans fill his ears. “Come on, come for me,” he says and sinks his teeth into her shoulder, hard enough to bruise.

“Close,” she gasps, and Steve slides his hand down her back over her ass and cants his hips for a better, deeper angle. His world narrows down to the feel of her cunt rippling around his cock as she comes, shaking apart in his arms.

“Darce,” he says, as bits of glass cut into his palm, as his own orgasm crawls up from his balls. He shoves into her hard, vision gone hazy and dark. A curse caught on the tip of his tongue. Steve comes back to himself in slow increments, Darcy's arms around him, holding on tight, her breath curling on his sweat slick skin. The ache in his wounds, still not healed. The trembling of the muscles in his thighs. He pulls his hand from the broken mirror leaving a trail of blood on the glass.

Blood on his reflection.

“Damn, Steve,” she says, the words slurred against his skin. She peppers his neck and face with sloppy kisses. He holds her tight in his arms keep his bleeding hand palm up. He’ll need to check it for splinters of glass but right now all that matters is the stilling of his breath, the slowing of his heart. He cants his hips, pulling out and reaches down with his uninjured hand to fumble with the condom, tossing it into the pink wicker basket beside the sink.

“Love you.” The words are whispered against his mouth. Simple and easy. His heart clenches in his chest, fills with warmth. Darcy kisses him, teases her tongue between his lips. Steals the breath from his lungs.

 _Love you_ , he thinks as he loses himself in one more kiss. Hold onto each other for one more day.

One more measured stretch of hours. Running from fate, and chasing a ghost. He wonders how he can love her and hate himself and what happens when the road ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music: Led Zepplin's Immigrant Song was the first thing on the radio (planet rock) when I needed them to listen to something. Does that count at 'method writing'? Anyway it amused the hell out of me.
> 
> I also listened to Beast of America by Nico Vega (acoustic version), Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, and broken Crown by Mumford & Sons while writing this chapter among other things.

**Author's Note:**

> ‘I Have No Reception’ silver is a real nail polish color. It just fit so well into the story when I googled nail polish colors that I had to use it. There is more headcanon for the story (There is always more headcanon. Just ask Britt). I stripped the story down in my head as I wrote it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
